God, I Hate Twinkies
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: Tony's tired of pretending and Twinkies are consumed. He hates Twinkies almost as much as he hates the media that forces him to be someone he is not. And, he really hates those stupid snack cakes.


The Annual Fireman's Ball has long been over; drunken entrepreneurs shuffling out of a stuffy banquet hall, draped over their female escort, whether it be wife or mistress, as some of them had been brazen enough to bring along from time to time. Of course, being his personal assistant, she had arrived on Tony Stark's arm, much to the envy of every woman in the room, young and old. It had taken some conjoling on his part but he had convinced her to arrive with him. And, the look on his face had been well worth the month's pay she had lost in the purchase of the black silk number she had chosen for the occasion.

That said, ending the night in a convenience store miles from home - his home - isn't exactly what she had planned. Neither is watching her boss, Tony 'Child Progidy' Stark grab multiples of every single snack cake the convenience store had to offer - Twinkies, white octagonal cakes with thin strands of chocolate striping the top, and chocolate cupcakes with a rope of white frosting braided across the top seem to be his favorites. He has enough Twinkies to last him through the month of June, providing he didn't plan to inhale them all in one night. For the record, Pepper Potts was and still is positive that this is a horrible idea. Sugar, in any form, is a terrible idea for a man who sustains himself solely on coffee, booze, and that greasy mess of a pizza Obadiah Stane brought him from New York sometimes.

Yet, here she is.

Slipper clad feet shuffling quietly on the tiled floor of the convenience store, high heels dangling from one hand, and messy cayenne pepper curls spilling over her shoulders. He's pacing through the aisle in what's left of his tuxedo; his expensive jacket had been tossed in the car along with his cufflinks. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbow and his bowtie hangs limp and crinkled around his neck. Black dress shoes shine in contrast to the dull white tile. His hair, at one point having been neatly combed and gelled, is a mess and there are tired lines etched into the delicate skin under his eyes.

He's a man on a mission - and apparently, armed with a massive sweet tooth.

The shelves are barely given a second glance after he's raided them for whatever kind of cheap sweets he can find. She almost wants to laugh at him, but it's after midnight, they're still at least thirty minutes from home and she's tired. She wants him to hurry up and finish his rampage through the store. She also kind of wants him to keep going because he's staying just far enough in front of her that she can ogle his fantastic rear without him possibly catching on.

When he's finally finished his sugar hoarding and they head for the cash register, it occurs to her that this is the first time she's seen him do something that was relatively normal. Given, she's never known of him to have such a massive sweet tooth, it's still amusing for her to see him do this. The attendant at the register is half-asleep and drooling on his hand when Tony drops his hoard of sweets on the counter. His total is ridiculous and he hands the man a few twenties, grabs his bags, and starts for the door, tossing a friendly "Keep the change!" over his shoulder.

The plastic bags are piled at her feet in the floorboard while he drives them to his mansion - oh dear God, she hopes he doesn't kill them.

"You just bought sixty dollars worth of processed sugar." Pepper eyes him suspiciously, "Half that was in Twinkies. You hate twinkies."

"Since when?" Tony turns his head sharply, eyebrows knitting together in confusion - wow, he was good at that whole expressive thing.

"Summer of ninety-eight." Pepper monotones.

"I'm sorry, I'm a little fuzzy. Clarify?"

She should have known. She doesn't remember much of that year, herself, only that she had just been hired to work for him when that incident happened. He had been a little more reckless and little bit more of a twelve-year-old than he was now and had dragged her and Rhodey to a county fair in some far away little-more-country-than-city town with a total population of less than five hundred. The ferris wheel had creaked and had been rusty in places it probably shouldn't have been, everything was deep fried, sodas were bought in glass bottles, and tickets were cheap.

"Me, you, and Rhodey went to a county fair. You ate three deep fried twinkies, decided to ride the tilt-a-whirl, and promptly puked on Rhodey's jeans." Pepper raises her eyebrows at him, as if daring him to challenge her.

"Oh."

"And, you prefer greasy food. Why the sugar?" Pepper looks down at the bags of sweets, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "The horrid, over-processed stuff."

He doesn't answer, just pulls the bowtie from his neck and tosses it in the back. There's something on his mind - never mind that she thinks she can actually hear the gears turning, but the fact that he's actually bothering with the speed limit tells her that something's wrong. But, he won't tell her what.

She's got to wait him out and let him come to her.

xxx

A pile of Twinkie wrappers crinkled on the mattress between them. It is two in the morning and he has her doubled over in laughter. Processed sugar and a weird concoction of pink lemonade, vodka, and basil edge them closer to a nasty hangover. Another cream filled, over-processed snack cake is unwrapped and he downs half of it in one bite. This one white with stripes of chocolate across the top. He devours these things in a ravenous manner, similar to that of a starved man in a buffet.

His method of consumption is quite simple; unwrap- ensure cellophane crinkles in the most irritating way possible, toss wrapper, and proceed to shove half of a sugar sponge into mouth, chew, swallow, and repeat. It's disgusting, the pleasure he finds in eating them but it shuts him up- for the twenty seconds it takes him to eat them- and she's spent most of her time working for him, wishing he'd do her a massive favor and shut up.

She's considering buying stock in Hostess and Little Debbie, just to ensure he was kept stocked in junk food. Quite frankly, she'd give him anything to shut him up sometimes.

But, she knows something is bothering him, because he's binging. Booze, sugar, food in general. He always went on a binge when he had something on his mind. He swallows his sixth twinkie and stares at her, pupils widening slightly. "Pepper, I - "

"What, Tony?"

"I'm tired of pretending." he mumbles, scooping the cream out of half of a dessert cake with his finger. She doesn't meet his eyes, instead choosing to busy herself digging through the bag for something that isn't going to send her into a sugar coma. Settling on a cupcake with a rope of icing on top, only because it's chocolate and she can eat chocolate all day if given the opportunity, she focuses her attention on opening the sweet snack.

When - and only when - there is at least one bite of chocolate in her system, she looks up at him. "Pretending, what?"

"I'm just tired of pretending, Pepper." he shrugs, swallowing the rest of his snack, before washing it down with pink lemonade. "Ever since Iron Man, I have to pretend. I have to pretend that I'm still stone-cold Tony Stark. I have to pretend that I don't have PTSD and I didn't spend three months in a cave, that they didn't almost kill me. How the hell - no, why the hell should I have to do that? Why does the media decide how I act in public? Why do I have to be someone else in public?"

"Oh, Tony." she sits up slightly, shuffling across the bed on her knees, sitting so that their legs touch. "You don't have to pretend."

"I feel like I do."

"Tony," Pepper sighs, lifting herself up so that she's standing on her knees. "You never have to pretend." she takes him by the shoulders, shockingly sober and strong. "The media does not dictate whether or not you have PTSD, and they definitely do not dictate how you act in public. You do. It is _not _nor will it ever be your job to keep the media happy."

His head tilts, eyes full of that sparkly wonder and adoration that's always just for her - in these moments when she shows just how strong she is, just why she is the woman beside the man, not behind him. His lips curl and his arms slip around her waist, tugging her closer. "You mean it?"

"I'm not one to lie, Mister Stark." she reprimands but the usual sharpness is gone, erased by the alcohol, and her voice is raspy and soft. "Especially to you."

"You sure about that?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"I don't really care about the media." he shrugs, looking down at the pile of wrappers, pooled around her knees. His words seem to hang in the back of his throat, and he only manages to get them out when he's forced his neurons to fire once more. "I don't want to pretend with you, Pepper. You are what is most important in my life, and if I'm pretending with you, then am I even being real with myself?" his eyes fill with tears. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Tony." her hands brush through his hair. "If you are ever pretending with me, I would know it. I've seen you at your worst, Tony. I know when you're putting on a show."

"Have I ever - ?"

"No." Pepper shakes her head. "Not once. Not with me."

"I don't like the thought of possibly having played pretend. That's a game for kids." Tony sighs, leaning his forehead against hers. "I am not a child, Pepper."

"I know, Tony." her hand slips through his hair, soothing him. She's always known, like some sort of sixth sense, what is soothing to Tony and what makes him feel like he's being patronized. "It's going to be okay."

He tilts his head to peek over her shoulder, cringing into the cotton t-shirt she had changed into (his cotton t-shirt) when they had arrived back at his mansion, at the sheer number of cellophane wrappers pooled around them. It occurs to him that Pepper's earlier observation is correct - he really does hate processed sugar, no two ways about it. He's starting to see it as a semi-edible representation of the media; disgustingly fake and bad for his health. Just as he'll never eat another Twinkie, he'll never act in whichever way the media expects him to because that is simply not him. But, his eyes catch the week's worth of sponge cakes left in the bag and he wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"God, I hate Twinkies."

* * *

><p><strong>I've been rather bored at night and in the mood to finish incomplete stories. Thus, this. I really do hate Twinkies. I've had two in my lifetime and I hated both. But, alas, America had a near meltdown when they almost went out of production. If I'm going to eat snack cakes, I much prefer those little chocolate cupcakes with the cream filling and rope of icing on top. But, only if I have Andy Capp's Hot Fries. I am disgustingly unhealthy, I'm aware. Anyway, this is my last story for quite some time. If you follow my Human Target story 'Metamorphosis' then you know it shall be updated at the end of the month as per my usual. <strong>

**Have a safe and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. (And, hey, if Christmas isn't your thing, feel free to extend the sentiment of your chosen holiday to me if you so choose.) **

**See you then (pretty sure I could kill 98% of the Supernatural fandom with that one.) **

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


End file.
